Those Hands
by NerdGirl95
Summary: At 16 Sirius is forced to run away to save his own life. Barely hanging on, he discovers three pairs of hands that are always there. And over time, he learns that those same hands will continue to be there, to pick him up when he falls.


**Written for the fabulous Lizzy (SiriusMarauderFan). Hope you like it!**

It was the scream that woke him. At first he thought he was back there, with _her_ face looming over him and _his_ wand shooting hex after hex at him as he struggled to get off the floor. But this was a different scream, and the light was all wrong and why was the ground wet? Strong hands were lifting him now, and he flinched instinctively at the touch until he felt a third hand slip into his – a familiar hand, calloused from Quidditch matches and potions burns, with that funny little scar on the pad of the thumb from the time he was showing off with his potions knife and got himself instead. And a voice accompanied the hand, soft and low and somehow deeper than he had last heard it, only a month ago.

"It's gonna be ok Padfoot, hang in there buddy. We're almost home, you have to stay with me mate. Come on, stay with us. That's it, keep those lungs breathing. Keep going mate, you're safe now."

 _Safe_. Could it be true? He hadn't been safe for a long time, not since he got Sorted into Gryffindor and dashed all of his parents' hopes of him changing his views and becoming the perfect son. Even at school he wasn't safe. Not with his Mummy's-boy brother and deranged cousins roaming the halls. And home…well the mere thought of home had him gasping for air and shaking with terror. Most kids looked forward to summer holidays with uncontained excitement. For him it was the most dreaded time of the year, a time during which he had to literally fight for his life. And this time, he'd almost lost.

He didn't know how long he slipped in and out of consciousness, his sleep fitful and plagued with nightmares, unable to pull himself fully awake. He was dimly aware of a figure bustling in and out of the room, piling on blankets, placing cool cloths on his forehead, changing bandages and pouring potions down his throat with the utmost care. When his nightmares were so bad he was left screaming and gasping for air, soft hands would rake through is hair and a gentle voice would sooth him back to sleep.

And through it all, that hand was there in his, sometimes tight and other times loose, almost as if the owner had fallen to sleep at his post. Sometimes the scar would be dragged back and forth across the back of his hand, or rubbed in soothing circles when he was tossing and turning. That hand was his one constant in his drifting, in-between state, the one thing that anchored him to reality.

Eventually he was able to drag himself out of the fog he'd been living in, and discovered himself in what he remembered as one of many guest rooms. But now it had _his_ trunk and _his_ clothes and curtains in _his_ favourite colour. Photos had been put on the walls, and many versions of the same four boys smiled and waved back at him. There was a pile of chocolate on the bed-side table, surrounded by get-well-soon cards. And in the corner between his bed and the wall was a pile of boys with limbs all tangled together and hair mingling and all snoring so loudly he was surprised he hadn't woken earlier. And there, attached to one of the out-flung limbs was the hand, still firmly clasped in his despite the obvious relaxation of every other muscle in its owner's body.

As he struggled to pull himself upright, wincing as every muscle and bone in his body seemed to protest, it was as if some signal unknown to him went off, and the pile of sleeping boys suddenly leapt up and rushed to his side. Surprisingly gentle hands eased him into a comfortable position, fluffed pillows, handed him water and smoothed the bedcovers. Anxious eyes peered into his, as if searching for some sign that he was going to be ok, and feet shuffled nervously, as if they no longer knew what to do now that he was awake. And through it all, the hand was still there.

Suddenly he burst out laughing, unable to contain it anymore. It was all just so ridiculous, those three boys, boys who he watched strut through the halls of Hogwarts everyday as if they owned the place, looking so nervous and unsure of themselves. These boys who tried so hard to be _cool_ and _manly_ showing obvious signs of playing nurse for Merlin-knew how long. And after the initial shock, they all started laughing too. Because despite the seriousness of the situation, despite the fact that he had been attacked by those who should have protected him, despite being forced to run away whilst on the brink of collapse, despite the fact that he would probably be jumpy for months and never really get used to physical touch again, they would always have each other. Because Peter was wearing an apron and feeding him soup, and Remus was reading him their summer work and writing his essays for him and James was telling him all about his plans to woo Lily this year – "I swear this year is the year Padfoot, I can feel it!". And through everything, through the recurring nightmares and the uncertainty and the disgusting potions Mrs Potter – he never could quite remember to call her Euphemia – forced him to take, that hand was always there, strong and reassuring.

And maybe he should have hated it, ashamed of the fact that he needed to hold someone's hand to be able to breathe. And maybe it should have been uncomfortable, two 16-year-old guys holding hands for a month straight. And maybe he should have been worried about what was going to happen when they had to go back to school. But he didn't care, because he knew that as long as that hand was there, as long as all six of those hands were there, he was going to be ok. Because they'd picked him up and put him back together once, and he knew they'd do it a thousand more times if they had to. And that's why, when he saw his parents on the platform on the first day of school, his breath only caught once. Because there were Peter's hands carrying his owl, and Remus' hands were putting his trunk on the train. And one of James' hands was waving to his – their – parents, and the other one was on his back, that little scar rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. And somehow, he wasn't that scared anymore.


End file.
